


Walking the nightingale floor

by maybeillride



Category: Free!
Genre: Angst, Court-gossip Kisumi, Daddy Issues, Emperor's son Sou, F/M, Gen, Happy Birthday Makoto! ;), M/M, Oops - forgot court priest Ai, Prince/Bodyguard AU, Prompt Fic, Protection, Romance, Samurai Mako, Sou is basically Prince Charming w/o the charm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybeillride/pseuds/maybeillride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tachibana-san, do you need your ears cleaned, hmm?” Sousuke asks, a little laugh in his voice that’s the lightest thing he’s felt in his mouth all day. “Didn’t you hear me ask you to come in?”</p><p>“My apologies, my Prince,” Tachibana replies, and now he’s letting the barest smile into his voice too, his bright eyes flicking up (finally) to meet Sousuke’s. It’s their particular script, the words and stage-directions change from night to night, but the tone is always the same.</p><p>This… lightness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking the nightingale floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eristastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic/gifts).



> Prompt from Eristastic: SouMako prince/servant or bodyguard
> 
> *looking at prompt* Hell YEAH i can work with that!  
> *re-looking at "SouMako"* EEK (1st time for everything!)

The air in Sousuke’s bedchamber is _frigid._

It’s the first thing he notices about the room, pulled up from his troubled sleep by some nightmare where he’s trapped on a tiny jagged rock at sea but instead of being surrounded by waves, reaching and grabbing and clutching hands scrabble up the rock on all sides. Trying to get him for some unknown reason, whether they need something from him or want to do him harm, it doesn’t seem to matter when they have some identical, mindless terrifying end in mind.

“… _Gods,_ ” he mutters, scrubbing his face hard with one hand. His heart slowly falls back to a more-normal rate but the dream is too vivid to escape just from being awake. Ai, the court priest, would jump for a scroll and quill if he made the mistake of sharing it with him.

“Your Highness!” he’d gasp, filling the damn thing side to side with embellishments on Sousuke’s bare-bones report. He’d look up, eyes shining, forgetting his usually so-correct comportment in how _excited_ he gets. “Do you realize what this all means?”

“ _Do_ enlighten me, Enlightened One,” Sousuke would sigh. With certain members of the palace retinue, he can get away with… not being _himself,_ but at least letting himself use a more-comfortable mask, and the humble little priest is one, somehow.

And Ai wouldn’t smell a whiff of his sarcasm, or if he did he wouldn’t be put-off by it. “You are under far too much stress. You feel overwhelmed by the demands your role places on you and all your subjects want from you. You may even be fearing the future, when your Heavenly Father finally succumbs to his illness and you are forced to lead in his place –”

…and then he’d stop, putting an ink-stained hand up to cover his mouth, big blue eyes horrified at his impropriety. And Sousuke would have no choice but to soothe and comfort the little man over hisvaguely-treasonous but totally-well-meaning words.

No, Sousuke would _not_ be sharing his dream with Ai. Or with anyone, in fact.

He throws the embroidered down comforter to the side and swings his legs out of his low bed, suddenly seized with a shiver that won’t let him go. He gazes down at his feet in their white sleeping slippers, arms wrapped absently around himself.

The heavy lacquered door shifts and there’s a tiny gasp. Sousuke looks up to find his morning room-servant caught in the doorway, arms heavy with his load of wood for the stove. He wasn’t expecting Sousuke to be up already, he thinks, and fears the worst for not having the stove going already in the January cold. But there’s no point saying anything – he can’t, in fact – so Sousuke just sighs instead and gives the boy a little dismissive headshake.

That seems to be enough and he hurries in to begin building Sousuke’s fire. He knows his next morning arrival will be close behind, and he isn’t looking forward to it.

“My _Prince!_ ” comes carrying down the hall before Sousuke even sees anyone and he cringes just a little on the bed. Protocol says he should stay put and wait until his Groom of the Stool shows up to do all his little fiddly morning helping things, but Sousuke’s body pulls him off the bed anyway and over to the massive wardrobe along the far wall. He’s darkly amused to see his room-servant go as invisible as possible as they’re finally joined by Lord Shigino.

Shigino’s father and Sousuke’s – the _Emperor_ – go back farther than Sousuke cares to remember, and their fathers before them, on and on _ad infinitum_. Which means this big, loud, insinuating, obnoxious man got the pick of court roles, and is suctioned onto him at the start and close of every day. The idea that seeing Sousuke in his underwear and helping him into and out of his ridiculously-complicated kimono – not to mention other, more _intimate_ tasks – is a coveted job that has all the other courtiers seething with jealousy… Well, it’s Sousuke’s primary proof that there is nothing “royal” about “royalty,” or “noble” about “nobility.”

Shigino joins him at the wardrobe door, fast enough that he’s able to get a hand on it before Sousuke is able to open it, but smooth enough that he doesn’t seem like he was having to hurry. This close, his perfume hits Sousuke, and he’s amused despite himself. Shigino is wearing the essence of apricot blossom, which must have cost him a mint given when they flower and their overall fragility. Nothing but the best, for his flamboyant not-quite-enemy, not-quite-friend.

“My _dearest_ Prince!! Why on _earth_ are you up this early? Did you not sleep well?”

Sousuke snorts unthinkingly. “I decided to get a headstart today so I could be ready for your arrival, Shigino. You wear me out.”

His groom gasps, and it’s pure theater, putting both hands to his broad chest and making a little shocked “o” of surprise with his mouth. His eyes sparkle though Sousuke can’t exactly be sure if it’s enjoyment or veiled danger he’s seeing.

“Your _Highness._ I don’t know what you mean. I’m here to invigorate you and give you the best possible start to a busy day. Frankly, I’m hurt that you’d think otherwise, after all we’ve been through.” He pouts a little, and Sousuke rolls his eyes a little, and it’s all according to their usual (tiresome, vaguely endearing) script.

Formalities done, Shigino knows he’s allowed to finally open the door, but curiously he doesn’t make a move, just holds his hands down low in front of him and faces Sousuke with a downcast face. Sousuke tenses at the sudden change in mood.

“…what is the problem,” he finally sighs.

Strangely, his groom glances back to confirm they’re alone (the fire crackling quietly in the stove) before going on. “My Prince,” he says hesitantly, with none of the usual italics layered on the title. “So I meant it about your busy day, today… I know what you have on the schedule, and I would suppose you aren’t… looking forward to it?” He says it in a rush, and Sousuke cringes at this new attempt at kindness, on behalf of Shigino and himself equally. They aren’t meant to be “nice” to each other and they both know it.

“It’s nothing,” he dismisses. “Just another day, another set of bows to make. Means nothing in the end.”

Shigino’s eyes widen but he just nods slightly, and finally slides open the wardrobe door. “Well, let’s get you looking marvelous. Or – _more_ marvelous,” he tacks on, popping his head out and giving Sousuke a rakish look, and Sousuke rolls his eyes again and submits.

*

“ _Who_ is this woman again?” Sousuke mutters to his father. This close to him, leaned into his cheek with his lips almost to his father’s ear to be as discreet as possible, there’s no denying how ill he is. The distance he adopts at court, positioned carefully on his dais and with his fawning flocks backing up respectfully at his every move, has successfully camouflaged the truth from all but the most-intimate of servants. The young priest also knows, Sousuke’s father beckoning him to his chamber at the oddest hours of the night when his breath fails him.

But this close, Sousuke… can smell it on him. This – impossible to name scent, hiding under his signature chrysanthemum perfume and the medicines, this stale, bitter smell of death. Coming soon, waiting patiently. And Sousuke has no idea what to do with that, how to react; he just boxes it carefully up and puts it away.

His father slides his eyes subtly to him. “You’ve already forgotten who she is? Or did you not bother to read the brief I had sent over?” He slides his eyes back to the lavishly-dressed family and their retinue, kneeling below them. “I truly wonder, son. You clearly have shown no interest in any of these women.” He stops there, all the other things he could but doesn’t choose to say swirling around them and poking Sousuke spitefully.

 _…wrong place, wrong place, wrong place,_ Sousuke thinks a little desperately, flicking his eyes down to his father’s lap, where his hands are hidden in the huge bells of his ceremonial kimono. _How are we so different, how how how? HOW can he sit on everything he must want to say and I can’t hold back any of it?_

“Well, I guess none of them has been the right one for me,” he finally says lamely, straightening to sit as stiffly as is more-appropriate for the Crown Prince assessing his potential future wife. He’s shocked to hear a tiny noise of disbelief next to him.

“Son, this isn’t about you,” his father finally says, and Sousuke could be imagining it, but he can swear the old man’s voice is sad.

He doesn’t let Sousuke think about it, though, nodding once to the group in full-grovel on the parquet floor and allowing them to finally rise. The lord, a tall, reedy man with a terrified expression, hurries forward with an equally-tall, equally-reedy, equally-terrified girl at his side.

“Your Majesties!” he booms in a voice Sousuke would expect from a sumo wrestler, stopping a respectful distance from the dais and yanking his daughter into a deep bow. They both look a little disoriented when they come back up. “It is the greatest of honors to present my dear eldest daughter, Misoka, to your esteemed eyes. It is her greatest happiness to meet you.”

 _It looks like her greatest happiness right now would be to throw up,_ Sousuke thinks.

The girl keeps her eyes to the hems of their kimono, her mouth a tiny line where she’s pinned it shut in fear or embarrassment, and doesn’t say a word. Sousuke’s father takes the lead.

“How old is Misoka-san?”

“Sixteen summers, Your Majesties!” her father booms again, bobbing his head.

“Is she well and healthy?” the emperor asks mildly, his eyes cutting briefly to Sousuke.

The lord nods enthusiastically to his poor daughter, then, and she gives a tiny “…oh!” before trying again. “Your Majesties, I am very well!” she exclaims – almost yells – and while her father’s voice booms hers squeaks like a wheel that needs oiling. Sousuke holds back an involuntary laugh with all his willpower. He feels his father’s eyes lying on him and it’s his turn to speak.

Sousuke clears his throat and the girl jumps like he just poked her in the side. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Misoka-san,” he says, trying to keep his voice as mild and non-threatening as he can, but it’s low and it rumbles and he knows the effect it has on people. And there it is, the wide impressed eyes of the bumbly lord, and the sudden look of fear-crossed-with-awe from the poor teenage girl, and he sits back tiredly in his chair.

The rest of their audience passes in an uncomfortable blur – like those key first few minutes are all that matter, and all that follows is just time-wasting formality. Sousuke knows it; his father knows it; the poor girl and her retinue might even know it, though they all do an admirable job putting on the right show if so, standing around making pleasant meaningless conversation with Sousuke and his own retinue (the Emperor remaining in his lofty and correct place on the dais). Sousuke’s head nods and mouth smiles and polite words come out and occasionally his hands gesture, and all the while his mind is occupied, trying (as always) to puzzle the mystery out.

 _WHY is he letting me choose??? And_ why _hasn’t he flat-out asked me why I’m not interested?_

It’s the future of the dynasty, after all. It’s only Sousuke, he’s the only child left, it’s only him and his father with his mother dead, and this is no casual thing. This may be the most important thing his father secures before he dies and Sousuke has _no idea_ why he’s leaving it to him.

When nothing presented to him has caused the slightest flicker in him whatsoever.

*

Sousuke groans as he collapses back onto his bed, alone for the first time in too many hours, head slowly pounding with the accumulated niceties he’s had to put on all day. Even Shigino was oddly quiet again as he helped Sousuke off with his heavy robes, letting that same alarming empathy from this morning show. It’s uncomfortable, that this ridiculous cartoon of a man might know about this thing he’s trapped in. Shigino has a wife, but he has no clue if they’re happy, if he even likes her. There’s just an _understanding_ in the man’s eyes that Sousuke finds wholly inappropriate.

But he forces himself back to sitting, rubbing some life back into his face and patting his cheeks. Finally, it’s the end of the day, and he can truly relax.

“…my Prince?” he hears just outside his door, right on time, pitched respectfully low. No footsteps to warn him beforehand, either, even with the foolproof warning system of the nightingale floor in the hallway outside. A warm feeling starts at his shoulders and drifts down, like someone has laid a protective arm around him.

“Please, come in,” Sousuke calls, pitching his voice low too, partly for the lateness of the hour and partly just to match the other man’s.

The door slides away, and there stands his evening protector, his own personal samurai. Sousuke leans back on his hands in bed, staring up at the man as he always has to do when they’re first reunited each night.

Tachibana is an imposing figure, almost as much-so as Sousuke himself, and there’s an added layer of… _weight_ that his years of training have given him that far-increases his air of danger. He stands obediently in the open door, still and straight, his light house-armor following and accentuating the broad planes of his form. The handle of his sheathed katana peeks over one shoulder, and his face is as peaceful as his body as he gazes down at Sousuke’s feet, waiting to be invited in.

“Tachibana-san, do you need your ears cleaned, hmm?” Sousuke asks, a little laugh in his voice that’s the lightest thing he’s felt in his mouth all day. “Didn’t you hear me ask you to come in?”

“My apologies, my Prince,” Tachibana replies, and now he’s letting the barest smile into his voice too, his bright eyes flicking up _(finally)_ to meet Sousuke’s. It’s _their_ particular script, the words and stage-directions change from night to night, but the tone is always the same.

This… lightness.

Sousuke gets to his feet, the day’s fatigue gone. He heads to the ornate table in the corner, as always offering Tachibana a cup of plum wine to match his own, and as always the knight turns him down, smiling.

They sit together on opposite sides of his writing desk, Sousuke sprawled comfortably in his seat. Tachibana faces him attentively, and Sousuke knows that even in this informal arrangement – in this half-business, half-pleasure situation he’s pulled them slowly into – his knight’s senses are on full alert. Ready to send him out the door at a moment’s notice if they hear something in the hall, or around the desk to attend to Sousuke if he’s suddenly taken ill, or worse.

“Tell me the latest about this… rogue samurai,” Sousuke demands, wanting to put ironic quotes around the supposed threat but also wanting to hear what his knight might know. Tachibana’s face goes still, _too_ still, and Sousuke frowns.

“What? Tell me!”

“We intercepted a letter, today.”

Sousuke leans forward, setting the porcelain cup hard on the desk. Tachibana’s face is grim, now.

“ _Finally._ Tell me how, tell me what it said.”

“We got information that the man was trying to drum up support for his cause,” Tachibana says slowly. His eyes are fixed on Sousuke’s, and he can’t look away. “The note was being carried by a boy dressed as a stablehand. We had to kill him to get it.” The samurai pauses, out of respect for the loss of life or due to the particulars of the murder, Sousuke isn’t sure.

Then he reaches inside his breastplate, and Sousuke’s eyes widen at the wrinkled and – yes – bloodstained parchment he pulls out. He passes it across the desk without a word and Sousuke snatches it from his hand.

 _Brothers!!_ it starts in bold – almost violent – lettering. _Do you want to labor under the heel of this archaic system forever? Do you want to live in the dirt while this “heavenly family” floats around in the sky? Eating YOUR food and standing on YOUR backs?? Don’t they take a shit like the rest of us??_

Sousuke makes a sound then, some half-gasp-half-snort, and Tachibana slightly relaxes into the barest smirk. “You’re at the bit about taking a shit, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Oh my GODS,” Sousuke breathes, shaking his head in wonder. “Is this for real? Or some ridiculous practical joke that’s really not funny?”

Tachibana recrosses his long legs and the dagger on his thigh clinks softly against his seat. “No, it’s deadly serious, my Prince. These are bizarre times to live in.”

Sousuke scoffs and picks back up where he left off. The rest is less-incendiary, and frustratingly devoid of incriminating _where_ and _when_ and _who_ levels of detail. But he gets the gist. Some troublemaker – dangerous radical, to be blunt – is trying to stir up trouble, get the common people (and other samurai??) questioning the way things ought to be.

He looks up. “Does my father know about this?”

Tachibana gently takes the parchment back and re-stows it away. “Not yet. We’ll be briefing him tomorrow morning.” He pauses, the skin pulled tight on his angular cheekbones going a gentle pink, like he accepted the drink from Sousuke after all. “I thought it was important that you hear of it first. You’re the future of the kingdom, after all.”

Sousuke swallows, something in his way and no words there to answer him, and gets up from his seat instead. Gets up, and skirts around the edge of the oversized desk, and steps slowly over to his knight. Tachibana just follows his progress with his eyes, his face solemn. Solemn, even when Sousuke nudges his crossed leg to the floor and straddles Makoto, lowering himself gently into the big man’s lap.

“…Makoto,” he can finally get out in a tiny whisper, when he’s seated, bony knees bare where his sleeping robe has split. The pink on his knight’s cheeks is hectic now, and his eyes pin Sousuke’s, sharpened by need.

“My Prince,” he replies, so low it’s almost a whisper too, and that’s good enough. It’s not his name, it will _never_ be his name, but Sousuke dives forward anyway, leading with his mouth to collide with the other man’s, following with his hands to curl around Makoto’s neck, tangle his long fingers in his hair, push Makoto’s jaw up with impatient thumbs. Makoto sits still under him, almost like Sousuke’s doll to do with as he likes, but he’s a willing plaything if so, opening his mouth to Sousuke, letting him dip his tongue inside. When Makoto moans, Sousuke feels it from the inside.

Sousuke is single-mindedly fumbling at Makoto’s waist, his hands dumb and clumsy and unable to find a way underneath his complicated tunic, when Makoto gently pulls them to his mouth and kisses the knuckles. Sousuke looks down at his beautiful face, his eyes bashful in a way that never fits, and the familiar impatience sweeps over him.

“Let me do it. I need to touch you,” Sousuke commands, and even though it’s the voice of a future king Makoto just lowers their hands to his thighs.

“You know that I can’t allow it, my Prince.”

“Sousuke!” he barks. He shakes his hands free and slides them into Makoto’s hair, short and shaggy for a samurai, getting enough leverage to force his head back and under his control. He raises himself up on his knees to hover over the knight, and the way Makoto’s expression never loses its calm sadness even in this vulnerable position infuriates him. “I’m Sousuke, why can’t you call me that?”

Sousuke stares down, waiting for – _forcing –_ a response, willing it to be different this time. But Makoto just blinks long and slow, and Sousuke feels warm comforting hands settle on his waist. “Because you’ll always be _my Prince._ ” Makoto stops, flicking his eyes down and away, then adds “…Sousuke,” in a voice so low Sousuke can hardly hear him.

They’re standing before Sousuke can anticipate it, and the knight walks them casually across the room as if Sousuke _doesn’t_ almost outweigh him. Sousuke is so surprised he hangs on with both legs gripping the man’s broad sides and his hands laced around Makoto’s neck, like Sousuke is a boy innocently climbing a tree. But he has no time to enjoy or hardly feel the sensation at all before Makoto bends down to ease him back onto his bed.

Tachibana straightens and Sousuke quells the urge to reach up for him like a gods-damned baby in a bassinet. When he speaks his voice is pleasant and professional and Sousuke knows the moment is truly gone. “I will be just outside the door as usual, my Prince, should you need me. For anything at all.”

Sousuke nods curtly and turns away to lie down, with his back to the knight. What he most-needed from Makoto, was the thing he clearly couldn’t give.

*

The threat from the rogue samurai escalates from laughable to serious over the next few weeks, as a particularly fierce storm immobilizes the city in heavy snow but somehow the intercepted communications only manage to increase in number. The treasonous messengers are representing all kinds of folk, is the other unsettling new development. Farmers, merchants, barkeeps; old, young; one is even a woman, dressed cunningly as a ninja for hire. All faithfully refuse to divulge any information before the Emperor’s samurai put them to death.

Without a battlefield to fight on, and with his health deteriorating almost in tandem with this new rise in insecurity, Sousuke’s father plays defense. Under new imperial order, Sousuke is confined to the palace and his knight is ordered to attend him at all times.

It is… the sweetest, and cruelest torture.

Having Tachibana all day – not beside him, but just to the side and a bit behind, like a shadow or a thought that keeps dancing on the edge of his mind – is maddening. He should feel safer with such a competent and dangerous man ready to do whatever it takes whenever it’s needed, without question or even thought. And he doesn’t.

Or rather: while Sousuke’s animal mind is soothed, at least a little, by his protection, the rest of his mind is hopelessly, dangerously distracted by him being so close, his quiet words here and there, a hand reaching out to steady his elbow. It would probably be safer to assign another samurai in his place, given Sousuke’s predicament. But he couldn’t let Tachibana go even if he had to. Because gradually Sousuke realizes the man has become his one constant in a sea of uncertainty.

“…good morning, Tachibana-san! Dear _Gods,_ when do you sleep??” Shigino’s voice is bright and sharp outside his door one cold dark morning, and Sousuke’s eyes snap open in the dimness of his room, the decorative screen from the wood stove throwing distorted shadows across the ceiling. _Tachibana-san._ Using his knight’s name so casually like they’re colleagues, having a drink at the bar and complaining about their lives. Since when is it his _groom’s_ place to question his father’s orders? To assume his samurai is being mistreated?

Tachibana’s voice is pleasant in answer, but Sousuke knows him almost as well as himself, and he can’t deny the fatigue slowing his words.

“Good morning, Shigino-san. It has been a trying time for us all, that is for sure.”

Shigino’s laugh rings out, too bright and sharp with this edge of disbelief, and Sousuke can’t stand it. He’s across the room and shoving open the door before the lord can put together some flirty-gossipy reply, and both men turn to him in shock. In Tachibana’s case, alarm flares in his eyes before it’s almost immediately put away.

“I believe I and my father know best how to manage this situation,” Sousuke says mildly, passing what he hopes is a cool gaze between the two men. “Shigino, assist me with my kimono. The audience is this morning rather than this afternoon.”

He turns to his knight, ignoring that maddening, peculiar _knowing_ in Shigino’s eyes. “Tachibana, you have been pushing yourself. Skip the audience and take an extra rest today.”

Even if Tachibana wants to disagree, he’s trapped by Sousuke’s order, and all he can do is bow. “I shall send Sasabe in my stead and return for your supper… your Highness,” he murmurs, and moves quietly away.

Shigino watches him go. He takes far too long to turn back into the room, Sousuke long-since abandoning him to open his wardrobe himself. The lord joins Sousuke, gently pushing him to the side to poke through it and shaking his head.

“…what??” Sousuke finally demands. He crosses his arms across his chest and he can’t believe he’s letting himself slip this far, acting like a whiny little brother to this silly man… but he can’t help it.

Shigino continues with his task, comparing a navy to a teal robe. “How… how _are_ you, my Prince, with all that’s been happening here lately?” He pulls down the navy and turns to face Sousuke, and the lack of joke in his eyes is as distantly alarming as his serious words. “This must be a terrible time for you and you must be very… _worried!_ I can’t imagine someone threatening my life like that. On top of… well, your poor father.” Sousuke lets the informality go, on top of all the protocols Shigino’s violating, and just blinks at him.

He’s apparently saving the best for last, getting his words out in an artless rush like even he knows they go too far. “I just… I can imagine, alright, why you’d need comfort right now. Wherever you can find it. I just don’t think you’re going about this the right way. And I think you might get hurt.”

“Shigino.” Sousuke’s voice is pure menace – the growl he never lets show but is always there underneath, just the same – and the pretty lord’s eyes widen. He falls a single step back.

“Leave me.”

His groom doesn’t try to argue, or even pretend they can go on with his duties like nothing happened. He just turns, carefully lays the elaborate navy kimono on a chair, and fades out of the room.

Sousuke puts on his teal robes on his own. And does a terrible job of it.

*

The morning audience is a disaster. His father is too ill to attend, and the absence of the Emperor on the dais is glaring. With his quiet dignity and _correctness_ missing, it’s just Sousuke bumbling through the rituals and scripts on his own, feeling even more out of control because the sloppy, loose job he did of binding himself into his many layers.

And Tachibana isn’t there.

The fact that _Sousuke_ sent him away prickles and makes him want to snort angry laughter every time he turns to see his samurai’s replacement, a barrel-chested blond man who seems tough enough but is also too-jovial and too-casual and too- _not-Tachibana._ He’s older, too, which may slightly excuse his attempts to lean in and give Sousuke cues on what to say to the group below him, the right gestures to make. Sousuke shuts him down with a single look.

“…approach,” Sousuke tries, and the girl and her father exchange a quick look below, as if they know he’s fumbling as much as Sousuke does. But at least they come forward and bow, first to the empty throne at his left, then to Sousuke.

“It is… our privilege to have you at the Imperial Palace,” he says lamely. The lord bows again, and the girl makes a flirty curtsey, flickering her heavily made-up eyes up to him before dropping them.

“Who is it my privilege to meet today.”

The lord jumps in. “Your Highness, this is my lovely eldest daughter Tamiko, who has been speaking of nothing but you for months.” He stops and bows again.

Sousuke shifts uncomfortably in his hard seat. “Tamiko-san. A pleasure. What… what do you like to do to pass the time, my lady?” It blurts out of his mouth unplanned, but he’s lost, just trying to find _something_ to connect him to the colorful doll below him. He hears Sasabe make a little stifled scoff.

“Your Highness, I dream of you,” the girl says in a voice dripping in sugar, and her eyes are hot as she flicks them up quickly at him. “I think of the ways I will be able to live for you, and serve only you, and make your every day happy.” Her father nudges her side and the girl jerks her head up, ornaments swinging in her elaborate hairstyle. “And of course, your Highness! I dream of all the children I will bear you.”

Sousuke blinks and the pair bow deeply again, and their entourage bows behind them, and he feels another part of himself go cold inside. He wouldn’t be getting a wife in this girl, but a slave. Or at least someone he would never know.

Sousuke stands suddenly, and the group below falls out of formation, some standing too, some bowing their heads to the floor (in fear or respect he doesn’t know), a few gasps shooting up. The girl narrows her eyes.

“I am sorry, I’m not well. I will need to end this audience now. Please accept my regrets and those of my father for not being present today.” His voice is toneless and blank, and he almost can’t believe he’s able to say the words at all. He makes a cursory bob of his head (not bothering to notice if they reciprocated correctly) and exits the throne room through the door behind the dais.

He takes to his bed, his father’s doctors fussing until he roars at them to leave, and then his door is closed and he can finally, _finally_ be alone. Be himself. Turn off his brain and take off his mask and just not _talk._

He wants to summon Makoto. He forces himself to wait.

*

“My Prince!” Makoto exclaims, hurrying into the room. Sousuke blinks up at him from the bed, totally disoriented. It’s full-dark now, a long shaft of lamplight following Makoto in from the hallway but the stove dark and cold; he may have told his servant to leave, he can’t remember. He’s warm – no, hot, wrapped in his comforter, though his face (his nose especially) is chilled where it’s exposed to the room.

“I… I must’ve fallen asleep,” he mutters, and then Makoto is there, crouching beside his bed and laying a warm hand on his forehead, another on his throat to feel his pulse. Sousuke can’t see his face in the darkness but he fancies he can sense Makoto’s concern in the way he’s so still while he assesses Sousuke, as if he’s a doctor in addition to all his other skills.

“You don’t seem to have a fever, and your heart is strong and steady,” he finally says, dropping his hand to give Sousuke’s shoulder a light squeeze before moving to the stove. He crouches to rekindle a new fire and Sousuke sits up, the heavy blanket falling.

“Makoto! I’ll get my servant, stop.”

His samurai peeks over a shoulder, and looks back at Sousuke for a long moment, before turning back to his task and making quick work of it. The room is soon flickering with uncertain light and Makoto steps back to the bed, wiping his hands clean with a small cloth he stashes back in his sleeve. Sousuke sits, openly staring. His brain is slow and stupid from his interrupted sleep, but beyond that, he almost can’t believe the sight of Makoto before him. He was wishing for this man to come almost like his protector had some kind of magic to him. Like having him here really _would_ mean everything was alright. And now that Sousuke has him he almost believes it.

“…it looks like you need some assistance with your kimono,” Makoto says quietly, almost whispering. His voice is this wholly new thing Sousuke’s never heard from the man, his customary smooth professional tones pulling out of shape as this amusement struggles to break out, burbling up. “May I help you with that, Sousuke?”

Sousuke’s mouth drops open, and then Makoto chuckles above him, softly and a little out of breath. He fumbles out of the comforter and stands before the samurai, and the wrap-around robe finally surrenders, falling open and showing off his light silk underrobe.

They both look down like it’s the climax of a really good play, then it’s Sousuke’s turn to snort laughter. “Looks like I don’t need any help. I think I won’t be sending my groom away again anytime soon, though.” He gives a quick shrug and the priceless thing slithers to the wooden floor. Makoto takes a tiny step closer and Sousuke lets a sigh shudder out, unsteady and ugly. “If – _if,_ I can do this whole emperor thing that is. Maybe I should just abdicate and go be a monk.”

“It would be a terrible waste.” Makoto is whispering now, like they’re telling secrets to match their secret names (…secret acts?). His face is almost hidden in the backlight. “What happened today, Sousuke?”

“She was awful,” Sousuke suddenly spits out, staring hard into Makoto’s eyes like the darkness doesn’t matter. “This simpering submissive little _slave_ of a girl, it was disgusting. And I was worse!” His voice is rising, climbing dangerously from their whispers towards the roar he knows means he’s doing it, he’s spinning out of control, and if he can’t stop himself –

“ _No,_ Sousuke.”

“I _was._ I was buying a cow at an auction. I wanted to fucking be sick. And I couldn’t even have a fucking soul about _that._ Couldn’t do the right thing and say how wrong it all was, just ran away to my bed. Like a damn girl.”

He wants to cry, the self-loathing is clawing its way up into his chest and his throat and his eyes but then _Makoto embraces him._

Wraps those long arms around him, fast, like he can tell how close to the edge Sousuke is, how much he needs their solidity. He pulls Sousuke firmly into himself and fits their chins into each other’s shoulders, and Sousuke hears a low, mindless little _“shhh…”_ as Makoto’s lips brush his ear.

“You did what you needed to do, my Prince. Girls have the right idea sometimes, you know. We need to take care of ourselves, don’t we? You _most_ of all.” He eases away then, and Sousuke wants to selfishly lean forward and demand more of Makoto’s warmth, but it’s just so Makoto can face him for what he has to say next.

“You’re going to be a _wonderful_ emperor, Sousuke.” Makoto’s voice is low, and ridged with sudden feeling, and his hands find Sousuke’s biceps and squeeze tight. “The best we’ve had. I don’t want to hear you talking about yourself that way, because you’re our leader and we need you.”

Sousuke grabs him.

In a single chaotic movement – a tai chi sequence without grace – he has a hold of his knight’s breastplate and shoves him on his back onto the bed, crouching over him like a hungry incubus devouring his face with his kisses. Makoto gasps in surprise and protest, the hands on his arms caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer. But Sousuke finds he can’t leave Makoto’s lips somehow, these beautiful things that say such _things,_ and he licks and dips in and tastes and moans deliciously at the feelings he’s imagined for too long.

Makoto is firm and abrupt when he pushes Sousuke up, holding him off like a wild animal in an attack. Sousuke can’t help the angry growl that rips out of him.

“ _No,_ Sousuke, I have to… let me at least take care of you…” The world turns and somehow Makoto has him down, snugged into the other side of the bed on his back, his silk robe pulling away in their roll. He can only blink up at the man balanced carefully over him, his black samurai garb and armor making him seem so powerful while Sousuke sprawls, naked and completely vulnerable. And breathless, feverish, chest hot and groin throbbing and hands seeking up to the one part of Makoto he can touch, threading possessively through his hair.

Makoto hums, a sound of satisfaction, and drops to cover Sousuke like his comforter, like he’s sorry for leaving him so open and uncovered in the chilly room. Sousuke tips his head back and lets his eyes drift closed.

Hot, firm lips travel across his cheek, move to his ear to gently play with the lobe for a moment.

They travel down, a tongue slipping out to describe a long, purposeful line he can see perfectly with eyes closed: tasting the apple of his throat, a firm suck to each nipple, a teasing trail around the ridges of his abdominals. Sousuke can’t hold back the soft groans that push out of him, no more than he can take his hands from Makoto’s coarse hair. Then that mouth is slipping slowly around his tip, _slowly,_ sinking down his shaft like a feather floating to earth and Sousuke’s out of his mind.

“…. _ahh! Makoto!”_ he hisses.

There’s just the gentle wet sounds and hollow pops as Makoto quietly attends to him, seriously, and Sousuke is floating in the blackness behind his closed lids, spiraling through the air even as he’s nestled in his bed.

And then there’s the barest creak of footsteps in the room, and Sousuke thinks _ah GODS, is that_ Shigino _–_

And there’s a sudden fierce impact on the bed, Makoto driving into him with all his weight and shoving Sousuke’s breath out in a rush. Sousuke gasps for air and flicks his eyes open and it’s – _confusion –_

Makoto, up, kneeling at the foot of the bed and face a fierce mask of fury. An armored man behind him on the bed, face shield down, grappling with his knight and yanking his neck to the side. Exposing it to the dagger in his hand.

Sousuke roars, shooting up from the bed, but Makoto has already whipped his faceless attacker around into the bed like a hungry crocodile. The dagger meant to sever Makoto’s jugular glances off his throat instead and Makoto has his own dagger free and buried in the other man’s neck in the same movement.

Sousuke sits back in shock, mutely watching the man choke and weakly flail once, twice, gurgling as he drowns in his own blood. Makoto’s face is grim, staring down with one hand on their attacker’s breastplate. But he doesn’t move, going dead and still.

Shouts and thundering feet in the hall finally spur Sousuke into motion, and he crawls to the edge of the bed. His knight beats him there, swiftly pulling his underrobe back around him and securing it as if he’s suddenly Sousuke’s groom, but with carefully-hidden alarm instead of ridiculousness. Sousuke shoves his hands away impatiently and Makoto grabs them.

“Are you alright, my Prince,” he demands, eyes wild and hair wilder.

“Yes, _yes!_ Who in the fuck is that??”

Makoto stalks to the end of the bed and yanks the corpse off by the legs in disgust, its armor thumping as it lands on the floor. The comforter shines with its blood.

Sousuke crouches at his side as Makoto swiftly unbuckles the helmet. The pounding footsteps are joined by a frantic “My Prince!!” at the door and three samurai and Sousuke’s chief steward shove in. His steward hurries to his side.

“Are you alright, your Highness??” the usually unflappable man gasps, panting for breath, his evening robes yawning open. Sousuke gives the man’s calf an irritated pat.

“I’m fine, Shinzu. We’re about to reveal this bastard’s face.” He suddenly gapes up, yanking the man closer by his lapels. “…my father. My father…!!”

His steward’s face goes ashy as he gently lays a hand over Sousuke’s. “He… has taken with a fit, in all the commotion. Things are not good with him.”

Sousuke looks away, mouth opening and closing stupidly and nothing coming out, and lays eyes on Makoto.

He’s gazing down, like he’s looking at his world turned on its head and ground into the dirt. With the helmet pulled away, the assassin looks so young somehow, and helpless, all his fierce murderous rage bled away. The red at his throat matches the bright red of his hair, pulled back into a topknot out of his way. His face is… beautiful, even in death, and Sousuke finds himself wondering how such a gentle-looking man could be filled with the anger to do what was done here tonight.

His samurai finally looks up at him, and his face softens. He addresses the three knights standing ready at the door. “Escort the Prince to his father. If anything happens to him, I will personally deal out the consequences for you.”

Sousuke stumbles up, the three guards coming to his side, and the journey from his room, through the long halls, to his father’s bedchamber passes in this odd disconnected flow. His body may be there, but _he_ barely is.

Just like his father, when they get to the huge bed surrounded by doctors and wailing women, passing through a haze of incense. The little priest gazes down, huge eyes bright with tears. His father’s body may be here – tiny, gray, drawn, his hand cool in Sousuke’s – but his father isn’t.

*

Sousuke wakes in his father’s bed, far over to the edge, the space where his father was last night empty and vacant. It’s funny, how that matches his own heart, how all he can feel inside is just… this weird emptiness.

Tachibana isn’t there; two of the samurai from last night, a pair of tall, strong redheaded men so alike Sousuke vaguely wonders if they’re brothers, stand quiet and still on either side of the closed door. He grunts and swings out of bed, approaching them.

“Tachibana-san. Bring him to me… please.”

They glance at each other, quick and knowing, near-telepathic. Certainly brothers, then.

The larger man, heavy and solid in a way the other is light and almost feminine, reaches behind his breastplate. “Your Majesty, our brother has… left the palace. Very early this morning,” he adds quickly, like he’s anticipating Sousuke. Sousuke blinks in confusion and dawning fear, and anger, at the parchment the man places on a small table by the door, folded carefully and sealed in wax.

“What are you talking about, left the palace. For where??”

“Please, your Majesty,” the knight says very gently, and his kind tone tips the scales in favor of fear in Sousuke’s heart. “Please, read this. We will be right outside for you should you need us. Although it appears the threat is finally over for you.” He pauses, and he and the younger man nod gravely to him. “My brother and I are deeply sorry for your loss, and the loss to the kingdom.”

The knights slip out the door, closing it quietly behind them, and Sousuke almost wants to command them to come back, to not leave him. He doesn’t want to find out what’s in the mysterious parchment. It looks so innocent. But he knows what’s inside is only waiting to reach up, sting him, crawl inside and burn him.

He tiredly carries the letter to the vacant bed and sits on the edge. The handwriting inside is neat, the characters big and bold and taking up much more room than they should, unlike the man who wrote them.

_My Prince ~_

_I am leaving your service, effective immediately. I leave you in the very capable hands of the Mikoshiba brothers who will protect you well._

_I only wanted to serve, that has been the only thing that is meant for me to do with my life. But I realized last night I cannot serve you. I can’t serve you and continue to put you in such danger. If something had happened to you, if circumstances had been even slightly different, I would have been damned for the harm I did to you and the kingdom._

_As it is, I have done enough. Do you know, we have determined the assassin was the man responsible for the insurrection against you and your father. He was actually a samurai in your service some time back, a man I got to know well, who was very skilled at the killing arts and passionate about doing good. He left the service on a mission abroad and before he left, he and I would talk about the future of the kingdom. He believed there could be a new breaking down of barriers between people, a togetherness… I didn’t understand him, and I laughed about him being a “revolutionary,” and we didn’t part on good terms. And look at what he became._

_That’s the irony, my Prince. You have the power to rule now, to make your own choices about the direction of this land. You can make this place more like your dreams!! You can make it more like the prince I know, more kind and passionate and caring more about people knowing each other than saying the right things to each other. I can’t believe this horrible violence that has gripped us all these weeks might have a little kernel of goodness in there, but there you go, never give up I suppose!!_

Sousuke drops the paper to his knee, a tiny gasp choking into the cold room and dying away. The words swirl in his brain and dance on his eyes but they don’t make sense. _Nothing_ makes sense. He lifts the letter to finish it.

 _I want to tell you not to give up in your search for a wife. I know you don’t want people telling you this, I know you don’t want ME telling you this, I know it’s not my place. But you need someone, someone right for you, to help you bring this kingdom forward_ at your side _and not trailing behind you. You have a giant heart and it needs to be shared._

The characters blur a little bit but Sousuke can make it out: _I will always be at your service wherever I might be. Please know that. And I wish you every happiness._

The letter is unsigned. Unsigned, and carefully unincriminating… of Makoto, of Sousuke, of anything that could cause a scandal even as Sousuke is certain no other human eyes will see this. He stands, walks stiffly to the stove, and leans to shove the paper through the grate… then withdraws it, staring down into the embers as they bloom and die inside.

The redheads – _the Mikoshiba brothers –_ look up quickly as he pushes the door open. “Your Majesty?” the younger says this time, his eyes soft with kindness. Not a samurai’s eyes, one would assume, but then again Sousuke’s idea of what a samurai “should” be has been twisted and flipped beyond recognition.

“I need some assistance dressing for my father’s funeral,” Sousuke says tiredly. “Can someone please send for Lord Shigino?”

*

Sousuke never would’ve imagined the presence of his groom could become so… soothing, so _right_. Shigino has dropped his act so entirely Sousuke is left wondering if he ever really knew the man at all. He doesn’t simper anymore, roll his eyes, giggle, make veiled comments that are about one thing on the surface and the exact opposite deep beneath. He just comes promptly and dutifully each morning right on the heels of his chamber-servant, the sound of him quietly bantering with the Mikoshiba brothers outside the room (his father’s, Sousuke now in the Emperor suite) oddly comforting.

He always gives Sousuke the same little ritual, too – stepping over to him to squeeze his shoulder, which Sousuke’s surprised he allows, and heading right to the wardrobe to find the right thing for him to wear. He doesn’t force Sousuke to talk, as if he knows his Emperor has nothing to say, and can only stare emptily down at his hands.

Then, after this quiet bustling domesticity they share for a bit, Shigino will talk. It’s always these quiet, careful little questions, in this low voice without a trace of his former veneer. His real voice. Checking in with Sousuke, on how he slept _(poorly),_ if he had any dreams _(…no…),_ if he has any pains or aches anywhere _(just in my heart)._ Sousuke is surprised each time the truth pops out of his mouth, and even more so that it gets easier each time Shigino asks him. Easier, and more natural, somehow. He isn’t a real person, not yet, but standing with the pretty man as he smiles at him and squints at him in concern makes him feel like he’s stepping closer to being one again.

“Your Majesty,” Shigino starts one morning, his voice far too hesitant for him. Sousuke instantly looks up from his teacup, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. He’s taken to inviting Shigino to share his breakfast with him, around the little table in his dining alcove, and the way his friend pushes his rice around (nervously?) in his bowl sharpens Sousuke’s gaze further.

“What are you planning, Shigino?” he rumbles. His instincts are confirmed at the way the man widens his eyes, like he’s pouring all his powers of persuasion into them. Sousuke sets his cup down and leans deeply forward, steepling his fingers under his chin and pouring all _his_ power into his gaze.

Shigino drops his bowl with a little chatter against the lacquered wood. “Please, you have to hear me out. I set up a special audience for you today,” he says in a rush.

Sousuke sits back, staring at the lord as he fidgets. “An audience. Now. When I’m in mourning.” They both understand the double-meaning of the word.

“You’ve been in mourning for months! You need this now more than _ever,_ your Majesty. You need a new start!” He shuts his mouth with a click, like he senses his words have gone too far, and Sousuke leans forward again.

“…a ‘new start,’ hmmm? Please, tell me more about this ‘fresh new start,’ Shigino.” His voice drips with sarcasm and his friend clicks his tongue impatiently. It’s almost unforgivably informal but somehow Sousuke lets it go.

“She’s _perfect_ for you, your Majesty. She’s a widow, wealthy, beautiful, from the town I come from on the coast. She lost her family very young, and now that her husband has died she has nothing to keep her there.” Shigino stops and takes a breath, and Sousuke just watches him in growing fascination at the way the lord’s polish has almost totally left him. He’s… _blushing,_ the color beautiful with his light hair, and there’s this stammer to his words that Sousuke can hardly believe.

“How do you even know this woman. She an old paramour of yours?” he snorts.

“ _No,_ of course not,” Shigino replies, almost petulantly. “She’s a very close friend. We were at court together there when we were young, and our nannies allowed us to play games together even being a boy and a girl, which Simply Wasn’t Done.” He smiles briefly at the memory and Sousuke smiles too at his intonation. “She… well, your Majesty, she’s you. She’s a female you.”

Sousuke snorts again. “What does that even mean, is she big and hairy with a terrible temper and no style?”

“Ha!” explodes out of his friend, and both hands fly up to cover his mouth as if he expects Sousuke to call the Mikoshibas in and behead him here and now. Sousuke just shakes his head, unable to lose the smile on his face.

“ _Well,_ ” Shigino tries again, “She’s actually quite small. I can’t speak to the hair issue, as we haven’t seen each other for quite some time –" and here the lord raises a single eyebrow. “She also has fabulous style, so that’s another mark against you two. But I have never met a woman with such a temper.” He widens his eyes at Sousuke in mock terror and Sousuke bursts into laughter, _real_ laughter, the first he’s had in… he doesn’t know how long.

“You aren’t doing a very good job selling this woman, Shigino,” he huffs, blotting at his eyes with a silk handkerchief. “Try harder.”

That’s when his friend reaches to grab one of his hands, and he gasps in surprise. His eyes are piercing as he gazes into Sousuke’s.

“This woman is your female match. She will be able to rule with you _and_ be your companion. At your side. It’s what you need, Sousuke.”

It’s such a moment folding in on itself, such a past-meeting-present, Sousuke just sits. He doesn’t protest the loss of separation between them, doesn’t even shake his hand free from Shigino’s, which is warm and comforting on his. Shigino shows no fear, and his eyes are calm and sure as he waits for Sousuke to answer him.

The room is silent as a long moment spins out. Finally Sousuke nods once. “Get me my best robes.”

*

Sousuke can’t stop fidgeting his hands, hidden under heavy sleeves. Shigino convinced him to wear a black kimono, a curious choice that would seem to make him appear more like some kind of grim official than a blushing suitor. It’s lightened, though, embroidered everywhere with these darting and dancing mackerel done in silver thread with the utmost skill, almost as if they’re alive. Sousuke is mystified why his friend chose it, but his intrigue only grows at the satisfied little smile on his face.

Lord Shigino stands below the dais, the only member of the mystery-woman’s retinue. When Shigino said she had no one, he apparently meant it, with not an uncle or aunt or even lady-in-waiting to accompany her. It’s just Lord Shigino, standing and putting a gentlemanly hand on the elbow of Lady Nanase.

She… is _beautiful._ Just, beautiful, _beautiful_ in a way Sousuke has never seen in a lifetime of being at court. Her beauty is simple, somehow. Natural. There’s no fussy headdress, heavy jewelry, loud colors, thick makeup. She’s just a small figure only coming to Shigino’s shoulder, glossy hair swept out of her way, still and shapely in a black kimono patterned in violet waves. She’s bold, too; her blue eyes find his with a directness that does that uncanny _shifting_ to him again. Folds the past back into the present, green eyes flipping into blue with each blink.

“May I approach, Lady Nanase?” Sousuke is asking suddenly, like he’s the lord trying to snag an Empress’ interest, and she makes a little _che!_ sound of amusement.

“You’re the Emperor! Do whatever you like.” Her lovely face is so serious, but Sousuke is sure her words are joking, too, even if her low voice doesn’t give her away. He scoffs as he stands, carefully descending the dais stairs so he doesn’t trip and crack his head open.

Shigino is beaming. “You don’t know how happy I am that you’re both finally meeting. I don’t know why it’s taken me this long to do it!”

Lady Nanase turns a fine profile to look up at her childhood friend with dangerous coolness. “Are you responsible for _everything_ that happens around here, Kisumi?”

Sousuke lets loose a delighted “Ha!!” even as his friend puts on a truly magnificent pout. He can only imagine, suddenly, what kinds of correspondence these two may have had. What his groom may have been telling this… intriguing woman.

“Of _course_ I am. I’m the power behind the throne.” He stops, hard. “…well. I’m trying to be. I have some big shoes to fill.” Their silence is sudden and in perfect harmony, increasing his suspicion that this Lady Nanase knows… too much about what’s been going on here. Maybe everything.

“I’m not interested in power,” the little woman says, breaking the silence. Sousuke blinks down at her, and she tilts her head to the side as she looks up at him, openly and unabashedly. His eyes slip, down from her face to her neck, long and graceful, and he swallows. “That has nothing to do with why I decided to come here. I was happy in Iwatobi, actually,” she adds, with a little pout of her own that Sousuke thinks may be 1000 times more real than Shigino’s.

 _…dear Gods, that is fetching,_ Sousuke thinks idly, then clears his throat.

“Then why have you come?”

She takes a step forward then, and lays a hand on his wrists where they’re hidden by his robe. He gasps. Shigino may as well, though he can’t be sure.

“I want to be with a good man who doesn’t act like I’m a porcelain doll. I want to put our heads together to see what we can come up with together. I want someone who makes me think.” She stops, and his bemused eyes swear they see a little flush in her cheeks. “I want someone who makes me _feel._ ”

Sousuke is infinitely glad the room is practically empty then. He’s well and truly speechless, staring down at this _totally unlikely_ creature, and Shigino has retreated a bit with a knowingexpression. As if all is going according to some demonic plan. Sousuke swears to himself that his retribution will be swift and sure… later.

He clears his throat… and then he’s gently dropping his hands from their panicked clutch, and catching Lady Nanase’s hand before it can fall. He’s deeply satisfied at the total surprise that crosses her face, and throws his words forward before she can lose it, feeling clumsy and awkward and stupid but somehow _alive_.

“I don’t know if I can offer you all of that, my Lady. But I would be honored to try.”

The little woman makes her irritated _che!_ sound, which he’s learning means many things, and looks away. “…if you’re sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> .....sorry? Heh.
> 
> There's plenty that may be upsetting here (possible OOC up the wazoo, casual killing off of beloved people, rampant upholding of traditional gender stuff including a gender swap, and esp Sou and Mako's arguably unhappy end). Let me know what you think if you're inspired. I was very intentionally playing to certain tastes of the esteemed prompter ;) and also i think it's more honest if someone as duty-bound as the emperor's son doesn't get what he wants.
> 
> Even if he does end up with a Haru... (if you want an amazing Arthurian-style SouHaru(Kisumi), please try Eristastic's The Lord of the Lake <3)


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